


Heart of a Wolf

by leonidaslion



Series: Berserker [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Gen, Spirit Animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a run in with a berserker, Dean's seriously injured and unconscious. And those are the least of his problems...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set just after Sam leaves for Stanford.

Despite the fact that John had called ahead to warn him, Bobby still looked shocked when he opened the door to let them in. “Aw hell, John,” he said, sounding a little sick to his stomach. John understood the feeling; he had been fighting the urge to hurl for the last two hours, although in his case the need came less from disgust than from guilt.

Dean hadn’t wanted to go, damnit: he’d said that something felt wrong about it, that there was more going on in Brackford than just a werewolf staking out some new hunting grounds. John had assumed that it was Dean’s way of sulking: dragging his feet on a hunt that he’d done at least a dozen times before. Werewolves were dicey for moral reasons, but easy in practice: one quick silver shot to the heart, burn the bones, and that was it. But it had only been a month since Sam had left, and Dean had been…

 _Reckless, is what. He hasn’t been dragging his feet, you ass, he’s been throwing himself into things like he_ wants _to get carved up._ John should have known better, should have remembered that sulking was more Sammy’s thing than Dean’s, should have… _Hindsight’s twenty/twenty, John._

“I’ve got a bed ready,” Bobby announced, hauling John out of his thoughts. He watched as Bobby moved in, arms outstretched. Then, realizing what the man was after, John stepped back and stumbled a little as his feet dragged. Hugged Dean closer to his chest.

Bobby frowned. “Don’t be an ass, John; you can barely stand. Now give me the boy before you drop him.”

John squared his jaw. “I’ve got him.” He stepped forward, sidling around Bobby, and then sagged as a wave of grey washed over his vision. Bobby caught John by the shoulders and then slid his arm underneath Dean’s torso and gently but firmly pulled him away.

John trailed after Bobby past piles of books into the spare room, wiping his hands absently on his shirt. Moot point now, really: the blood caked on his skin was dry, and it would take some hard scrubbing to get it off. Thank God for small favors. John wasn’t sure what he would have done if he hadn’t been able to get the bleeding stopped. Taken Dean to a hospital, probably, and Lord only knew what would have happened _then_ because there was something rotten about this whole business: something wrong besides the gaping holes in his son’s body.

Bobby lay Dean down on the bed, which he’d covered with a heavy tarp, and started peeling away at what was left of his clothes. There was a bowl of steaming water on the nightstand, and a washcloth sitting next to it. Needle and thread. Bottle of peroxide. Handful of charms scattered across a musty, yellowed book. Tools of the trade, and it hurt John’s heart to look at them.

He must have made a sound because Bobby paused, half of Dean’s shirt in one hand and his knife in the other, and glanced over his shoulder. “Sit down before you fall down,” he ordered.

“’M fine.”

“Bullshit. You can pull a chair up if you want, but if you aren’t down by the time I finish here, I’m gonna _put_ you down, you hear me?”

John grunted. “You’d try.” But he dragged one of Bobby’s sturdier chairs over and dropped into it. The joints groaned in protest and he ignored them, leaning forward to grab one of Dean’s hands as Bobby laid his son back down on the bed. So that Dean would know he was there if— _when_ , damnit—he came around again. Bobby had stripped Dean of everything but his boxers, and now that John could see the damage clearly, he was choking on regret. Why hadn’t he listened?

“You gonna tell me what happened?” Bobby asked.

John ran his free hand through his hair. “Told you. Fucking nut job jumped us. Thought he was a wolf or something.”

“You sure he wasn’t?” Bobby was looking at the wounds, of course. Three deep scours down Dean’s neck and upper chest, across and through his left shoulder. A shallower, but more dangerous collection of the same across his lower abdomen.

John’s jaw tightened. “Guy had some kind of homemade blade: three hooks welded together.” He watched as Bobby dipped the washcloth in the water and started cleaning out the gashes on Dean's chest. “He fooled us, Bobby. Fooled me, anyway. Thought it was a werewolf, way the bodies were torn up. Guy only killed on the full moon.”

“Easy mistake,” Bobby said, voice light. He dipped the cloth again, leaving red swirls in the water.

“Dean knew.” John said it low, on a slow exhale.

“Said, ‘hey, Dad, that’s no wolf, it’s a man hacking people up with a coupla custom hooks’, did he?” Even unconscious, Dean groaned as Bobby moved down to the lower wounds, and Bobby patted his side. “Sorry, buddy.”

“He knew something was wrong.”

“Really.”

“I thought he was just dragging his feet.”

“On account of Sam, you mean.”

“Screw you, Bobby.” But it was said without any real rancor or heat. John just didn’t have the energy for anger. Didn’t have room for it, anyway, the way the guilt and remorse was filling his skin with their sickening burn.

“Dad?” Dean swam back up into consciousness, blinking groggily at the ceiling.

John tightened his grip on his son’s hand. “Right here, Dean.”

“Where…”

“My place,” Bobby said. “You caught a few good ones, but we’ll get you patched up.” He tossed the washcloth into the water, pink sloshing out onto the table, and then picked up the peroxide. “This is gonna hurt, Dean.”

Dean took in the bottle in Bobby’s hand and his eyes slipped shut. He nodded, face tightening. “Yeah, okay. Do it.”

Bobby positioned the bottle over the shallower wounds first, tipping the disinfectant across the gashes in a steady wash and pressing down on Dean’s uninjured shoulder with his free hand. Dean bucked up into it, swearing. Sweat poured off of him and his face went from pale to colorless.

When Bobby finally moved back, giving the pain a little time to settle, Dean opened his eyes again. His head flopped sideways and he tried to focus on John, pupils blown. “Tell me we got him,” he ground out.

“You got him, son. You did good.”

“Crazy son of a bitch.” Dean swallowed heavily and John could feel his son’s hand trembling. “How bad is it?”

“You’re gonna be fine.”

“Not what I asked.”

John’s throat locked up on him. He didn’t know the answer, not for sure, but it wasn’t a good one. Not with gashes like these.

“Dad?” Dean’s voice shook a little this time.

Bobby moved in smoothly, deflecting. “Gotta do the rest. You ready?”

Dean frowned a little, and it was obvious that even through the pain he knew that they were sidestepping his question. He couldn’t seem to find the strength to argue, though, so in the end he just clenched his jaw and nodded. Bobby dipped the bottle, a wash of white across Dean’s shoulder, and Dean didn’t even have time to scream before passing out.

John watched as his son went limp, face easing out as his muscles relaxed. “How bad is it?” he asked, forcing the question out.

Bobby glanced at him as he put the empty bottle back on the table. “You should know, John. You’ve seen as much as I have, comes to stuff like this.”

“I know, I just can’t…” He couldn’t make his mind work that way: couldn’t assess the damage when it was Dean lying there, cut up worse than ever before. Fraction of a centimeter deeper and he’d have been holding his intestines in his hands, for Christ’s sake.

Bobby threaded the needle and set to work, shoulder first this time, taking advantage of Dean’s unconsciousness. “He’s gonna scar up good. Dunno about his arm: muscle there’s pretty torn up. Good thing he’s right handed.”

“Damn it. Damn it all to hell.” John unclenched his grip on Dean’s hand to try to smooth out his son’s hair. Found blood matted in it, and wondered how the hell it had gotten there: from the initial spray, most likely, or maybe it was from the crazy bastard who’d done this to Dean in the first place.

“You sure you don’t want to take him in?” Bobby asked. He was holding the first of the tears shut with one hand, working the needle through with the other. “These get infected, and we’re gonna be in some serious trouble.”

“I know. But…”

“But what?”

John shook his head, trying to think straight through the exhaustion and fear muddling his mind. “I didn’t listen to Dean’s instincts before and I nearly got him killed. Not gonna ignore my own gut now.”

“It saying anything I oughta know about?”

“Nothing specific. Just that that something was off with that man—besides the fact that he was bugshit crazy.”

“Anything we can do?” Bobby jerked his head toward the pile of charms. “Pulled out a little of this, little of that, just in case.”

John pressed his lips together, thinking. “Holy water for a start; cleans out a hell of a lot of stuff.”

“Already done.” John glanced at the bowl of bloodied water as Bobby continued, “And before you ask, this was my gran’s sewing needle: pure silver—old girl liked her luxuries.”

John nodded. “Didn’t think he was a werewolf, but I guess it’s good to rule it out.”

“Guess so,” Bobby agreed, voice mild. He tied off the thread on the first gash and moved onto the second. After a few minutes of silence, he said, “Why don’t you get out of those clothes while I finish up here? Take a shower, eat something. When you’re ready, I’ve got a cot out back. We can wheel it in, set you up next to Dean.”

John wanted to stay, but knew objectively that he wasn’t doing any good here, was only eating himself up over it. Dean was unconscious, and liable to stay that way for a while. He wouldn’t miss John if he stepped out for a few minutes. So he pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly, and Bobby reached out a hand to steady him without looking.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. You just go take care of yourself for a bit; I’ve got Dean.”

John shuffled toward the door and then paused, looking back. “I told him the truth, right?” he asked. “He’ll be fine.”

“I’m not gonna lie to you, John. He’ll live to break more hearts, get around okay. But hunting? If his muscles don’t knit up right, that arm’s gonna be a hell of a liability.”

The air slid out of John’s lungs in a shuddering exhale. “Yeah, I know.”

“As for that gut of yours, we’ll load the boy down with a little bit of everything for tonight, see if we can’t sort it out in the morning.”

“I owe you one.”

“Don’t think I won’t collect, neither. Now get your ass out of here and let me work.”

John went.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean was standing in the middle of the woods, watching himself be cut down in a continuous, painful loop. He stood on top of a small hill, looking down on himself as he and Dad hiked in toward the place that Dad had pegged for the werewolf’s hunting grounds.

Dean had taken point: silver-loaded gun out and ready, back-up knife in his belt. Dad trailed after, similarly armed. Dean had been scanning ahead, looking for any sign of the werewolf, and he hadn’t paid much attention to the small hollow to his left. Because werewolves were big fuckers: too big to fold themselves into such a small space.

So he’d moved past it, and hadn’t seen the man emerge, wearing old sweats and a t-shirt and a belt of ratty fur, and wielding a triple-bladed hook in each hand. Dad had seen, though, and shouted a warning even as he raised his gun. The man moved like some kind of animal, lashing a quick kick to John’s chest and toppling him over before spinning around to slash at Dean.

Dean watched as he tried to bring his own gun up. Watched the nut job kick it out of his hand while bringing the right hook down and across his chest, driving him back and opening him up. Watched himself fumble at his belt for his knife, left arm hanging uselessly. Watched the nut job dance in closer, a snarl on his face, and swipe up with his left hand: the cut sliced through Dean’s stomach, making him falter. The man’s other hand was coming around, heading for his throat, and Dean could tell that he wasn’t going to get his own knife up in time.

But then the man…hesitated. His body shook, arm poised for the killing stroke, and his face twisted in rage. But he didn’t press forward, and the hook didn’t fall.

Instead, Dean watched as his knife finally came free of its holster. Watched himself shove the blade into the man’s chest, between his ribs, before collapsing into a heap, the nut job coming down on top of him. Dad was just now righting himself—it had all happened so damned _fast_ —and he was getting up, panic on his face, running toward Dean…

The world stuttered and then it was starting again. Dean taking point, obliviously moving toward the man’s hiding hole.

“What the hell?” Dean muttered. He stood there, not sure what else he was supposed to be doing, and watched as the man cut him up yet again. Watched him slide from one slash into a second into a killing stroke that should have fallen and hadn’t.

“Why the fuck didn’t he do it?”

 **::Stopped him.::**

“Wha…” The word died in Dean’s throat as he spotted a flash of gray pelt at the corner of his vision. He took a few shaky steps backwards as a massive timber wolf padded toward him, tongue lolling from one side of a wide grin. “Good doggie.”

The wolf’s ears flattened back against its skull and its lips peeled back from its jaws. **::Not ‘doggie’. Hunter.::**

Dean searched for something to say that wouldn’t get him in trouble here and finally settled on, “What are you?”

 **::Hunter. You hunt. We hunt.::**

Dean frowned. “Not really an answer there, Cujo. Who are you? What am I doing here, wherever here is?”

 **::Hunter. Here is home.::**

Okay, obviously those questions weren’t getting answered anytime soon. Dean decided to try a new line of questioning. “Why am _I_ here?”

 **::Saved you.::**

Dean glanced at the looping memory of his life, wincing as the nut job sliced him open again. The nut job wearing a fur belt. And here Dean was, talking to a wolf. Oh, fucking _hell_.

“He was a berserker, wasn’t he?” he said, looking back at the wolf. “You’re some kind of animal spirit he invited into his body.”

 **::Yes.::**

This was making just about zero sense. “Why stop him from killing me, then? I mean, that’s what berserkers do, isn’t it? That’s what _you_ do.”

 **::Bad man. Not hunter. You hunter. Hunt good together.::**

“Come again?” Dean wasn’t hearing this right; he couldn’t be.

The wolf edged toward him, grinning. **::Sensed you. Strong hunter. Good partner. Better.::**

Oh hell, he _was_ hearing it right. He’d heard about berserkers, even if he hadn’t tangled with one himself before. They were serious bad news. A person could control the spirit at first, to a certain extent, but the more they tapped into its powers, the more they started to go…wrong. Feral. In the end, they regressed right the fuck back into whatever type of animal they’d bound themselves with. Pastor Jim called it soul bleed: said it was the inevitable result of a human soul melding into one with its animal passenger. The beast was always stronger than the man. Always.

Dean cleared his throat. “That’s real flattering, but I’m not interested.”

 **::Good hunts,::** the wolf wheedled. **::Make you fast, make you strong. Could have killed you. Saved you.::**

“Thanks, but no thanks. Now you wanna show me the way out of here?”

 **::Felt you. Heard you. Still hear. Anger. Want to fight. Want to hunt. Want to kill. Want to bleed.::**

Dean stepped back, trying to put more distance between himself and the wolf. “Look, there’s a difference between being a little pissed off about how shitty your life is and wanting to kill everything that moves, okay?”

 **::Lonely. Miss SamBrotherFriendPartnerSammy. Need me.::**

Dean swore under his breath, ignoring the sudden, sharp pain in his chest that the wolf’s words caused. Sam. Of course it all came back to Sam: in the end, everything always did. And suddenly the hurt was washed away by a flood of anger. If Sam hadn’t run off on him, then this never would have happened. He and Sam and Dad would’ve iced that berserker from a hundred feet away and right now he’d be celebrating their victory over a couple of beers. And, if he was lucky, cozying up to one of the pretty waitresses.

 **:: _Yes._ Hunt kill feed fuck.::**

“Stay out of my head!” Dean snapped.

 **::Not in head.::**

“Oh yeah? Then how the hell did you kno…” He trailed off as the wolf continued to stare at him, contentment in every line of its body. Glanced over at himself as he killed the berserker yet again. His memory, on display. Dean swallowed the rising panic. “No. You’re not. You can’t. I didn’t summon you.”

 **::Saved you. Mine now,::** the wolf said smugly.

“The fuck I am! Get out!” Dean bent down and grabbed a rock. Lobbed it at the wolf. The wolf dodged to one side, panting happily. “Get the fuck out of me!”

 **::We hunt. Good partner. Two-as-one. Stronger. Better. You see.::**

“I don’t want this,” Dean said. “Do you understand? I. Don’t. Want. This. Get out and go find someone who does!”

He blinked and there was fur under his hand, heat along his side. The wolf was standing next to him, leaning on him. Its tongue snaked out and brushed his fingers.

Dean yelped, stumbling away from it, and suddenly he was in Bobby’s spare room, tripping on the bed and practically falling on top of his own body, which was lying in the bed and swathed with heavy cloth bandages. The wolf bounded up next to him and Dean shoved himself back, away from it. It ignored him, sniffing up the length of the body in the bed.

“Hey! Get off…me.” God, this was weird. The wolf found the lower bandages and started worrying at them, tearing them off with teeth and claws. Dean winced. “Stop it! I mean it; I don’t want you here.”

The bandages parted, revealing sore, feverish-looking skin beneath, sewed up with neat, economical stitches. “Don’t—” Dean started, and then the wolf was licking at the first gash and pain flared in his stomach. He dropped to the floor, one hand curling protectively around his abdomen.

“What the…fuck…”

 **::Fix you. Hurt. Can’t hunt. Fix you, then we hunt.::**

Oh _Christ_ , this hurt more than actually getting cut open in the first place. “Not…interested…go play…in someone…else’s…soul…”

 **::Want you. You Hunter. Lonely. Angry. Make it better.::**

“You _can’t_ fucking make it better!” Dean snarled, and then gasped as the wolf moved on to the wounds across his chest and shoulder.

 **::One and one is one. Good. Choose you. Make you whole.::**

“Oh, _goddamnit_ , you stupid, fucking wolf!”

 **::Better. You see. Good.::**

Not good, not good at all, but the pain was finally stopping, at least. Dean raised his head, searching desperately for some way to get the wolf to fuck off. It was leaning off the edge of the bed, looking down at him. Dean scowled, and then it was leaping toward him, though him, _into_ him. Something heavy and hot lodged inside his ribs, pressing against his insides. Dean swore and slammed his fist against the floor.

“I swear to God, the first thing I’m gonna do when I wake up is evict your furry ass.”

There was a sullen silence, and then, from inside him, almost meekly, **::Wouldn’t.::**

Dean laughed. “Wanna bet?”

 **::Won’t,::** the wolf said, more firmly. And then, craftily, **::Won’t remember.::**

“Won’t re—Don’t you _dare_ mess around with my head!”

 **::Sleep now.::** Furry son of a bitch sounded smug. **::Hunt tomorrow.::**

Dean wanted to argue, but darkness was crowding in on him, pushing awareness out. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the padding of heavy feet, running, hunting, drawing nearer. _Shit_ , he thought, and then there was nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

John came awake all at once, the way he’d trained himself to, but he stayed still for a moment, taking stock of himself. It had taken him forever to fall asleep, despite his exhaustion: he’d been too worried to let himself go. He thought it might be too soon for him to get up, because his brain still felt like mush, but in the end his need to check on his son won out. John sighed and pushed himself up, wiping his eyes with one hand and glancing over at the bed.

The empty bed.

“Dean!” he shouted. And then, on the heels of that, “Bobby!” He jumped out of the cot without waiting for an answer, staring wildly at the empty bed. The bandages he and Bobby had wrapped around Dean last night were lying in shreds on the floor around the bed, as though something had ripped them off. A trail of charms led out the door, toward the rest of the house, where something had taken Dean.

How had John managed to sleep through something like that?

“Bobby!” he shouted again, and Bobby came stumbling into the room, eyes puffy with sleep. He was holding a gun in one hand and using his other to hold his robe closed.

“Whassit?” he demanded, fuzzily. And then, as he took in the room, “Where’s Dean?”

“That’s what I want to know!” John snarled. “I just woke up and he was gone.” He pushed past Bobby, scanning for any signs of what could have happened. “Dean!” he shouted again.

“You didn’t hear anything?” Bobby asked, following him.

“You think if I had my son would be missing? Dean! Damnit, Bobby, where the hell is he?” He whirled on Bobby suddenly, slamming him into the wall. “He was supposed to be _safe_ here!”

“I realize you’re upset, John, but if you don’t get your hands off me right now, we’re gonna have a spot of trouble.”

There was the sound of a gun being cocked, and something hard pressed into his side. John narrowed his eyes. Bobby had _not_ just drawn on him. Except, as Bobby stared at him and that point of pressure in his side increased, it seemed that he had.

After a few motionless moments, Bobby added, “I don’t want to shoot you, John.” He stood there, face calm and certain, waiting, and John forced himself to back off. He wasn’t going to help his son by getting a hole punched through his side. Bobby nodded and flipped the safety back on his gun. “We’ll find Dean,” he said. “We just need to take a few minutes to think this thing through.” He cocked his head, glancing toward the front of the house. “You hear that?”

John nodded. Someone had just pulled up in a car. He followed Bobby into the living room and took up a position by one of the windows. Slid a finger between two of the blinds and tugged them down so he could peer out.

Dean was climbing out of the Impala, a coffee cup in one hand and a greasy paper bag in the other. John was already moving down the steps by the time Bobby was telling him to wait—to be careful. That it could be some kind of trick.

Dean looked up as John bore down on him, startled. Then John was pushing Dean back against the Impala and grabbing a hold of his son’s shirt and tugging it up. Dean spluttered, dropping the bag and spilling coffee everywhere.

“What the hell, Dad?” he demanded, trying to push John away.

John tightened his jaw and shoved Dean against the car again, harder this time. “Shut up and hold still,” he ordered, and Dean went quiet at the command. Face filled with confusion, he stood there obediently while John stripped his shirt off, prodding at his stomach and shoulder.

John’s jaw tensed and he spun around to look at Bobby, who was standing on the porch with his gun pointed somewhere between Dean and the ground. “He’s healed,” he said. “There’s not even a scar.”

“You sure that’s him?” Bobby asked.

“Course I’m me,” Dean snapped. He slid out from between John and the Impala, flicking spilt coffee off his hand. “What the hell’s got into you two?”

“What did you do, Dean?” John demanded, and then immediately wished that he could take it back when Dean’s face flickered with hurt.

“I didn’t do anything. Sir.” Dean’s voice was cold, just this side of disrespectful.

John’s hackles went up automatically and he stepped closer. “I want you to tell me how this happened.”

“How _what_ happened?” Dean snorted, throwing his hands wide. “Hell, Dad, all I did was go out for breakfast, and I come back and you and Bobby are…” He cut himself off, eyes widening, and then asked bluntly, “Are you _drunk_?”

And that was just so fucking funny that John was startled into a bark of laughter. Dean shrugged, looking awkward and a little embarrassed. “Guess not.”

“Damn straight we aren't,” Bobby called from the porch. “Should know your Dad and I better than that.” He finally lowered the gun, coming down the steps toward them, but John noticed that he didn’t put it away. “Dean, when we turned in last night, you were cut up all to hell.”

“I what?” Dean glanced at John for confirmation and John nodded.

“It’s true, son.” He reached out and tapped Dean’s stomach and then his chest, where the wounds had been. “Here and here,” he said. “That man who jumped us in the woods got you with some kind of three bladed hook.”

Dean ran a nervous hand across his own skin, looking down at himself. When he looked back up, there was fear running through his eyes. “I don’t remember,” he said, voice tight. “I didn’t…I woke up this morning and I…”

“How’d you think you got here?” Bobby asked.

“I don’t know, I…” Dean ran one hand through his hair sharply. “I didn’t think about it,” he admitted.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” John realized he was twisting Dean’s shirt in his hands and threw it back to his son.

Dean caught it and used it to start mopping coffee off of himself. “Diner in Brackford. Stephanie: nice legs.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of course Dean would remember the waitress. “You want to focus here, son?”

“Yeah, sorry. Uh, we were gonna head back to the hotel, catch a few Zs before hitting the woods. We were hunting a…” He paused, face crinkling a little, and then said, tentatively, “…a werewolf?”

“It wasn’t a wolf: it was a man. Only looked like a wolf because of the blades he was using. He got the jump on us, cut you up pretty good before you put him down.”

“I don’t remember. When was that?”

“Last night.”

Dean was silent for a moment, staring at the ground. When he looked up at John, his face was openly worried. “Dad, what the hell happened to me?”

“I don’t know, Dean,” John admitted, hating the way that Dean’s face fell when he did so. “But I’m gonna find out, and we’re gonna fix this, whatever it is. You hear me?”

Dean’s lips twitched up into a slight smile. “Yes, sir.” He sounded relieved: Dad was on the case, everything would be fine. John turned away quickly so that his son wouldn’t see the doubt in his own eyes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

John managed to lay low at Bobby’s for three weeks. He spent the time helping out with research and calling in old favors whenever they ran into a dead end. Dean tried to help at first, but it was clear that he was becoming increasingly agitated, and toward the end of the first week he started disappearing for hours at a time. Just took the Impala and went driving, or headed off somewhere on foot. Usually, when he came back his eyes were bleary with alcohol, and once John had smelled perfume on him.

He could have told Dean to lay off the booze and the women until they knew what was going on, but he didn’t. John understood his son’s restlessness: Dean had been on edge since Sam left, and without hunting to funnel his energy into, the boy needed something to distract him. John was hurting too, and he sure as hell was ignoring all of Bobby’s opening gambits on the subject, but he’d been preparing for Sam’s departure ever since he and his youngest had their first shouting match when the boy was twelve. Ironic that Dean, who had devoted his life to Sammy, who always seemed to know what Sam needed before Sam realized it himself, had been the one blindsided by his brother’s desertion.

So John let the drinking and the sex go with only a grunted reminder to be careful, but when Dean staggered back one night with his lower lip split and his knuckles bruised, John told Bobby they were leaving.

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” Bobby warned.

“What else am I supposed to do, Bobby? We can’t stay here forever, and we’re no closer to finding out what happened than we were when we started looking.”

“So that’s it? You’re just going to chalk it up to…what, luck? Dean’s fairy godmother?”

“Doesn’t seem to be hurting him none,” John pointed out. “And being cooped up here is driving him nuts.”

“Driving you nuts, too,” Bobby observed.

John frowned. “This isn’t about me, Bobby.”

“Isn’t it? You just want to drag him out of here so you won’t have to deal with the situation.”

“And what situation would that be?”

“Boy’s hurting. When you’re on the road you can ignore it, cause you’ve raised him to be a hunter first and a man second, but here it’s getting shoved in your face—”

“He’s _my_ son, Bobby. Not yours.”

Bobby regarded him steadily for a moment before answering. “I know that. Just want to make sure you do too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John felt himself tense and couldn’t make his muscles stand down. Didn’t really want to, if Bobby was taking this where John thought he was.

“Sometimes I’m not sure you don’t forget you’re his father and not his platoon leader.”

“Bobby,” John said carefully. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and my boy, but he’s my son, and I’ll handle him how I see fit.”

“Sam—”

And that was it. John was up and moving toward Bobby in a flash, and the only thing that stopped him from smashing the man’s face in was Dean’s sudden appearance in the doorway. John froze in mid-step, and Bobby, who had been pushing himself to his feet, sank back into his chair. Dean’s eyes flickered between the two of them warily.

“I interrupting something?”

John shook his head. “No. Go get your stuff. We’re leaving.”

Dean perked up instantly. “A hunt?”

“Possible haunting over in Ridgewater.”

Dean rolled his shoulders loosely. “Awesome.” And then he was gone, tearing through the house as though he had to be there yesterday. Ah, the energy of youth. John’s fond smile dried up as he returned his attention to Bobby.

Bobby looked up at him with a bland expression. “We still doing this?” he asked.

John snorted. “Sometimes I think you piss me off deliberately.”

Bobby’s lips twitched in a smile. “Naw, just lucky.” He leaned back in his chair, scratching at the back of his neck lazily. “Seriously, John, I’m worried about Dean.”

“You think I’m not?”

“I didn’t say that. I think you’re scared. Hell, I think you’re fucking terrified.” Bobby tipped the front of his cap back a little. “But that’s half the problem right there.”

John’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything. The man was right, after all. John got scared, wound up in unfamiliar territory, and he reverted to his training. Only thing he knew how to do: only thing he trusted to bring him out safe on the other side. Knowing shit like that was precisely why Bobby always pissed him off so much. John knew his faults full well; he didn’t need anyone else pointing them out to him.

“I just don’t know that that’s the best way to deal with this situation,” Bobby finished.

“It’s all I’ve got,” John admitted. “And Dean… next time it might not be just some drunken bar brawl. Next time it might be knives, or guns. Wrong or not, I’ve raised Dean to be a hunter, and he’s not going to turn that off just because something took interest in him enough to heal him. He doesn’t have it in him to do anything else; he wouldn’t know how.”

“I know that, but John? You’re gonna have to think about what’s gonna happen if those wounds on his chest open up again in the middle of a hunt.”

What the hell had Bobby been doing, spying on his nightmares? John grunted, turning away a little. “Then we deal with it. I’m not letting him near the front lines until we’ve got a handle on this, though.”

“You tell him that yet?” John’s sigh was apparently answer enough because Bobby immediately added, “Dean’s not going to like that.”

“Maybe not, but it’s a solution we can both live with.”

Bobby heaved himself out of his chair and came over to pat John’s shoulder. “I know you do the best you can by them. And for what it’s worth, I think Sam’ll come around. You both will. I know,” he hasted to add as John’s eyes flashed up. “I won’t bring it up again. Just saying. And Dean…Dean’ll work through it in his own way. He’ll be fine.”

God, John hoped so. Losing one son was hard enough, even if it would keep Sammy safe. He couldn’t lose Dean too, not and stay sane. Without the boys, he would have gone over the edge long ago. Would’ve been no better than the man who had almost ended his son’s life, hiding in the woods like some kind of animal. Hunting… killing… and not being able to tell the difference between the two.

“I’m good to go.” Dean was standing in the doorway, bag slung over one shoulder casually. His face was calm, but his eyes were bright and eager. John smiled at him a little. The boy never could figure out how to lie with his eyes.

“All right, then. Let’s move out.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

If Dean didn’t kill something soon he was going to go nuts. Six towns and five successful hunts after they’d left Bobby’s, and Dad hadn’t let him near a blade or a gun except to practice. It was better to be out and moving, had loosened something inside him that had been wound up tight when he was trapped at Bobby’s, but it wasn’t enough. He had to _hunt_ , not just research and sit in the car like he was still twelve years old.

If Dad wouldn’t let him, then he was going to have to find something to take the edge off on his own. Maybe a townie, big and mean and drunk. Not that it would help much. Dean had tried it before, at Bobby’s, and it had been a release of sorts, but it wasn’t the same as hunting. Too slow, too fat and lazy. Not enough duck and weave and blood.

Dean had been dreaming in crimson for the last few weeks. Dreams of running naked through the woods. Of a heavy, curved blade in his hand. Of stomachs opened and flesh torn. Memories of things he’d killed in the past, mingling with things he’d never done and wasn’t sure—when he was awake, anyway—that he really wanted to do. Because when he was dreaming he couldn’t always distinguish between food and kill, between hunt and fuck. Everything was mixed up in a wash of red and teeth and claws, and he could always feel something just behind him, keeping pace. Urging him on. In the morning, he could never remember what it was.

Weird fucking dreams all right, which only went to prove that he needed to be out there _doing_ something instead of trapped in here like some kind of invalid. It had been months since something had healed him at Bobby’s, and it hadn’t showed up for any repeat performances. Hadn’t demanded anything. Dean hadn’t developed any third eyes or a taste for drinking virgin’s blood. It was past time to chalk it up to some kind of divine providence and move on. Except that Dad seemed perfectly willing to keep Dean sitting on the sidelines for the rest of his life.

“I’m coming,” Dean said abruptly, watching as his father rechecked his backup gun.

“I need you to stay here,” John answered without so much as glancing up.

“To do what? Sit on my ass? Answer the phone?” Dean’s voice was sharp and he expected his father to rebuke him for it, but John only shook his head a little.

“To start looking for our next job.”

“You mean _your_ next job.”

“Dean—”

“I’m not hunting here, Dad. This isn’t…” Dean swallowed and then forced himself to articulate. “This isn’t enough. I’m going nuts, man. I can’t just sit around while you’re out there. I mean, if you aren’t going to let me hunt, then I might as well have—” He cut that one off because he knew damn well that Dad wouldn’t be able to ignore it. Could tell from the way that Dad’s shoulders hunched aggressively that he had heard the rest of it anyway. _I might as well have gone with Sam._

“Son, we still don’t know what happened at Bobby’s. I can’t risk something going wrong in the middle of a hunt. You know that.”

“Don’t you think that if this thing were going to backfire on us, it would have by now?” Dean demanded. “You can’t keep me here the rest of my life. If you won’t let me hunt, I’ll…” God, this was difficult to say. “I’ll do it on my own.”

John looked up sharply at that, mouth tightening dangerously. “The hell you will.”

A week ago Dean might have backed down, but he couldn’t take much more of this idleness. Not even the wrath of John Winchester was enough to stop him at this point. “I’m twenty-two, Dad. Lots of guys got started at my age. Hell, Caleb started hunting on his own when he was what, sixteen?”

“You try it and I _will_ drag your ass back here.”

“Damnit, Dad!” Dean snapped. He pushed himself off the bed to pace, feet practically skimming the carpet as he moved.

John slid the gun back into his boot and then fastened his heavy gaze on Dean, slowing him. “What’s wrong with you, Dean? This isn’t like you.”

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s because I’ve never had to just _sit_ here for fucking _months_ on end before. I’m not hurt, Dad. I’m not sick. I’m _fine_ and you won’t let me do anything but sit in front of that damned computer all day!”

“And what if those wounds open up again?” John demanded, stepping toward him, face dark. “What if we’re in the middle of nowhere and you start bleeding out? You could _die_ , Dean.”

“Yeah, and you could get run over on your way to the car. Or have a heart attack. Or I could fucking electrocute myself turning on the lights.” He laughed a little wildly. “That the way you want to live your life, Dad? Cause it sure as hell ain’t the way I want to live mine.” He grabbed for his coat, meaning to leave before he could say anything worse. Needing to go and find someone to sink his _(teeth)_ fists into.

John grabbed Dean as he moved to pass and Dean almost took a shot at him. Blood pumping too fast, breath too shallow with the need to hunt. To kill. He managed to stop himself, though, and then forced himself to stand still while his father stared at him intently, studying him. Dean met John’s eyes: let his determination show. He wasn’t bluffing, not this time. If John wouldn’t—couldn’t—let Dean hunt with him, then Dean would do it alone.

After an indeterminable pause, John released him, sagging slightly. Dean felt a brief pang of guilt at how old his father looked. How tired. “Fine,” John said, and even his voice was deep and worn. “You come, but you keep back. And if you feel anything going wrong—anything strange—then you retreat, you hear me?”

Dean’s heart jumped in his chest and he nodded tightly. Fucking _finally_. “Yes, sir.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They were after goblins tonight. A small nest had moved in too close for comfort to a popular hiking trail. It was an easy track and bag, which was the only reason John had caved and agreed to bring Dean. They didn’t even need to get close for the kill: just shoot a couple of iron rounds into the things and they’d go down like a pack of cards.

John kept a close eye on his son as they made their way up the trail by moonlight, watching for any sign of weakness, anything wrong. But Dean seemed to be in good spirits, and he moved easily, occasionally slipping off to one side or another to scout for tracks. He passed through the woods even more silently than usual: looked more aware and alive than he had since Sammy left. It should have been comforting, but for some reason the glimmer of moon in his son’s wide smile left John feeling queasy and cold.

He told himself that everything was fine, that he was just jumping at shadows, but couldn’t quite make himself believe it. Dean ranged ahead and behind, restless, and he looked leaner in the dark. Looked rangy instead of solid: something in the way he moved. And whenever John managed to get close to him, he could feel something in the air, like an electric current: heat coming off of Dean, pouring off him in suffocating waves.

 _Bad news, John. Turn him around now, before it’s too late._ He opened his mouth to call to Dean, to call off the hunt for the night, and then snapped it shut again as his son dropped to the ground in a crouch, one hand held up behind him in warning. John dropped as well, slower and less graceful, and thumbed the catch on his gun. Now that he’d been started from his concerns, he could hear them up ahead, just over the next rise. Could hear their screeches and gibbering, and the louder, human cries of fear and pain.

John belly-crawled up to Dean and peered down the ridge. There was a wide, open hollow there, and it was crawling with the things: each about five feet tall with black, shiny skin like a beetle’s carapace and long, stringy hair. Yellow nails that curved into thick claws and slender tails that whipped behind them. Catch a snap of that across the face and a man could lose his eyes. They had a young couple with them, probably out for a romantic stroll despite the recent deaths on the trail. Well, they were learning caution now. The man was already dead, judging by the wet shine of moon on ribs, but they were saving the woman. Toying with her.

John glanced at his son and Dean’s face was shadowed, unreadable. His eyes caught the moon and shone strangely. “How many do you make it?” John murmured, voice low.

Dean hesitated, then held up one hand. Curled his fingers in once, twice, three times. Twenty, then. Which sounded about right, but was ten more than John had been expecting. Shit. They were going to have to shoot accurately and fast to end this, and there was also the girl to consider.

“I’m going to move around to the other side,” he whispered. “Draw their attention there. You get in and get the girl out.” Dean shook his head once, slowly, and John’s stomach twisted. Now was not the time for Dean to be stubborn. “That’s an order,” he insisted, and then Dean was pushing himself to his feet and moving down the ridge in a smooth lope.

“Damnit,” John swore, struggling to his own feet. And then he could only stare in horror as his son plunged into the middle of the hoard.

Dean was on them before they knew he was there, and John could see that he wasn’t bothering with his gun. He’d pulled a knife from somewhere—and when the hell had he pocketed _that_ monstrosity?—and was slashing with it, moving in sharp, short bursts. The goblins snarled and tried to overwhelm him with their numbers, but they couldn’t get close enough. Weren’t fast enough. Dean moved through them like a black wind, and the knife in his hand wasn’t catching the light anymore; it was too thick with blood. The goblins came at him, tails lashing and claws swiping, and they fell around him, fell as he moved and flowed: ten men instead of one, more than a man, and less. He attacked silently, to the accompaniment of the goblin’s guttural bellows and the girl’s higher cries.

Then the goblins were running, those that could still run, and Dean was after them. He cut one down from behind before it had gone more than a few steps and then disappeared into the woods after the others. There was a few seconds of crashing and then silence from that direction. The only sound John could hear now was the girl, shrieking next to the body of her lover.

John’s hands were trembling—couldn’t shoot for shit right now, if any of them circled back, although that wasn’t looking all that likely—and all he could think was _fuck fuck fuck fuck_. Finally, because there wasn’t anything else to do, he forced himself to shove his gun back in its holster and started to pick his way down to the girl.

She was covered in blood—most of it her boyfriend’s—and more than a little hysterical. She tried to run when she saw him coming, tripped over one of the goblins’ mutilated bodies and screamed. He touched her gently, making soothing noises in the back of his throat.

“It’s okay, miss; you’re safe now. You’re okay, they’re dead.” Eventually she turned and buried herself against his chest, weeping and clutching at him desperately. He held her and stared at the carnage around him. Wondered where his son was, and what he’d brought with him into the woods tonight.

It took John a few minutes to realize Dean was standing only five feet away, knife in one hand and three bloodied goblin tails in the other. Blood made his face black in the moonlight, but it was his eyes that stopped John’s heart. Burnt amber and glowing in the darkness, like cat’s eyes. Or a wolf’s.

And John knew suddenly what had happened to his son. Knew that the man they had killed in Brackford hadn’t been insane, or not just. He’d been a berserker. And he’d somehow transferred that taint to Dean.

Dean dropped the knife and his trophies, gliding forward a few steps. His head was tilted to one side, every movement smooth and flowing. He sniffed the air and paused, sinking down into a crouch. Those unnatural eyes of his watched John steadily.

“Woman,” he breathed, his voice low, and he hitched forward a little, cautiously.

John realized that he wasn’t the one being stared at. _Jesus Christ,_ he thought, and his arms tightened around the girl.

Dean’s lips pulled back in a snarl and now his eyes raised to John’s, as if he had only now realized that he was there. “Mine.”

John shook his head. “No, Dean.”

Dean growled, actually _growled_ , and pulled another knife out of his boot. Licked his lips, licked the blood on them, and shifted his weight.

“Dean,” John tried hoarsely. “Son, stop.” He wasn’t sure he could get to his gun before Dean slit his throat, not now. When Dean didn’t move, he continued, “It’s over, Dean. You got them all.”

Dean regarded him flatly, but he didn’t look quite so ready to attack anymore.

“They’re dead, son. You did a good job. Now just put the knife down.”

The glow in Dean’s eyes flickered, and his face loosened in confusion. “Dad?”

John almost choked on his relief. “Yeah, Dean. It’s okay. Come on back.”

The yellow flared once and then winked out, leaving his son crouched there, eyes filled with a growing horror as he looked from the knife in his hand to the girl in John’s arms. Then Dean was dropping the blade and scrambling away, through the bodies of the goblins he’d killed. He was kneeling on his hands and knees and puking.

John shifted away from the girl, unwrapping her hands from his shirt, and went over to put a hand on his son’s back. Dean felt feverish, even through the layers of shirts and his leather jacket, and he flinched a little at John’s touch.

“Oh God, Dad,” Dean moaned. “Get it out of me. _Please._ ”

“Shh,” John said. “It’s okay, son. We’ll figure it out. We’ll fix it.” But God help him, he didn’t know if they could.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean was still subdued when John brought him back into Bobby’s house: hadn’t met John’s eyes once the entire thirty-hour drive. Hadn’t slept, either. And whenever John had tried to make him, Dean got frantic, insisting that it came out when he was asleep, that it wasn’t safe. John let him alone after that; it was easier, and he didn’t really have the faintest clue how else to handle the situation.

Bobby was waiting for them in the kitchen and there were three steaming cups of coffee on the table. He nodded up at them easily when they came in and said, “Hear you’ve got a little wolf problem.”

Dean favored him with a brief, annoyed glare before remembering that he wasn’t looking at anyone and dropping his eyes. “Glad someone’s amused,” he muttered.

“I’m not amused, Dean, trust me.” Bobby leaned across the table and slid one of the cups forward. “Take a load off and have a drink. Little birdy told me you haven’t slept much in the last forty eight hours.” Dean still hesitated, holding back, and Bobby added, “There’s a little extra fortification in there, too, of course.”

Dean slid into the seat and John followed, something in his chest loosening. Safe. He and Dean were safe here: Bobby would help them figure out what had happened, and then they’d fix it and everything would be fine. Still, he could use some fortification himself right now. John smiled a little as he tried his own cup. Fortification with a little coffee, more like.

The three of them sat in silence for a while, drinking, and then Dean said, “Dad told you what happened.”

Bobby leaned back in his chair. “He did.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Dean’s eyes lifted again, desperately. “I don’t know how it happened. I mean, it’s not supposed to happen like that, is it? They can’t just…climb inside and make themselves at home. I must have done something.”

“I’m not sure yet, Dean. We’re gonna need to talk to it.”

“ _Talk_ to it?” Dean repeated, incredulous. “Why the hell do you need to do that? Just get it out of me, Bobby!”

“Won’t know how to do that unless I know what happened. Animal spirits are usually pretty accommodating with information, long as you ask them politely.”

“Politely…Why don’t you invite the fucker for tea while you’re at it?”

“Dean,” John warned.

Dean swallowed, ducking his head. “Sorry, sir.”

“Boy’s just upset, John.” Bobby’s voice was even and calm, his eyes steady. “Perfectly normal.”

John hated the jealous twinge that shot through him at Dean’s quick, grateful grin in Bobby’s direction. He kept his mouth shut, though. Now wasn’t the time to pick bones with Bobby over who was the boy’s kin at this table. And really, it shouldn’t matter which of them brought Dean out from behind the walls he was trying to build. _As long as it’s you, right, John?_

“How’re we gonna do this?” Dean asked, oblivious to John’s dark mood as he drummed his fingers against the side of his mug.

“You’re gonna get some sleep. Then John and I will see if we can’t get some answers from it.”

“What if I hurt someone?” Dean’s eyes flashed up at John, open and worried. “Dad, what if I hurt you?”

“We can tie you down if it’d make you feel better, son.”

Dean nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah, good idea. Just…be careful, okay, Dad? It’s dangerous, and it’s…it makes me stronger.”

John nodded. He’d seen what it could do, and he wasn’t taking any chances. Not when it came to his son.

“Okay, then,” Dean breathed, looking a little more at ease in his own skin. “Let’s do this.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It took them about an hour to set up, mostly because Dean was unhappy with the rope that Bobby initially brought to the room. He refused to settle until they found some extra lengths of chain from the garage and brought those in instead. Then he lay there shifting uncomfortably until Bobby suggested a mild sedative might help, and about ten minutes after Dean had swallowed the pills he was snoring lightly with his mouth handing open.

John drew a hand over his face. “How do we do this?” he asked Bobby.

Bobby shrugged. “How the hell should I know? Do I look like I’ve done this before?”

John frowned. “But you said—”

“Didn’t want to scare the boy. John, I’ve never heard of anyone being possessed by an animal spirit unwillingly. Berserkers always invite them in. There’s a long, painful ritual involved.”

John bristled a little. “Dean didn’t—”

“I know he didn’t. And it scares the shit out of me. I know how to break the link between a berserker and an animal spirit, but that’s mostly because the spirit doesn’t want to be there in the first place.”

“Stupid men.”

John jumped at the sound of his son’s voice and looked over. Dean was watching them with an expression of annoyance. His eyes were amber. John’s breath caught and he heard Bobby swear softly.

The wolf in Dean snorted and shifted Dean’s body, straining against the chains. “Let us up,” it insisted.

Bobby got his voice back first and said, “Not until you give us some answers.”

“Now!”

“Answers first,” Bobby insisted.

The wolf shut Dean’s mouth firmly and glared at them. Bobby glanced at John and shifted closer. “We’ll hurt him,” he said softly. “We’ll take his hands and he won’t be able to hunt.”

Dean’s lips spread in a wide grin. “Won’t,” the wolf said smugly. Its eyes shifted to John. “Your cub. Won’t hurt.”

“Maybe not,” John agreed. “But we _will_ keep you here. You and him both. Dean would want us to.”

Dean’s face was a mask of horror. “Won’t!”

“Will,” Bobby agreed.

The wolf growled to itself a little and then said sourly, “Ask.”

“How did you get inside my son?” John demanded. “How the hell did this happen?”

“In through the blood, through the skin. In deep.” It smirked. “In long time. Two hearts, one soul.”

“You’re lying,” John spat, heart hammering. There hadn’t been enough time for Dean’s soul to fuse with this thing. There can’t have been.

“John.” Bobby laid a calming hand on his arm and then said, “Dean didn’t invite you in. He didn’t summon you. I don’t understand how—”

“Chose him. Felt him. Needs me. Was broken. Halved. No more SamBrotherFriendPartnerSammy. Now fixed. Now whole. Complete.”

John grunted a little. Broken. Halved. Because John had pushed Dean at Sammy until the boy thought of his brother before himself, and then sent Sammy away. Exiled him. _This is all my fault._

“I don’t understand,” Bobby said. “What do you mean, you chose him?”

The wolf sighed. “Stupid man. DeanMeMine hunter. Like me. Fierce. Proud. Strong. Stronger together than apart. Partner.”

“You were in the other man, when he attacked Dean in the woods.”

“Yes.” It nodded Dean’s head earnestly. “Called me, trapped me. Stupid man. Hunted for fun. Evil.”

John blinked at that, pulling himself out of his brooding. “Evil?” he prodded.

“Evil,” the wolf agreed, and then added, “Don’t hunt for fun. Hunt for food. Hunt to protect the pack. Not hunter. Coward.”

“And Dean’s not.”

“Protect the pack. Protect SamBrotherFriendPartnerSammy. Protect JohnDadSirYesSir. Hunt darkness. Good hunts. Stronger. Faster. Better.” It tilted Dean’s head, a sly gleam in those alien eyes. “Saved him. Would’ve died. HarrisDarkEvilCruelTrapper opened DeanMeMine. Wanted to drink his blood. Stopped him. Saved us.” It snuggled Dean’s body deeper into the bed with a small sigh of contentment. “Mine now.”

“Liar.” The look on Dean’s face darkened at John’s word but he pressed on, “Dean would have killed me in the clearing if I hadn’t gotten through to him. He would have hurt the girl.”

It shifted Dean’s shoulders in a limited shrug. “Wanted. See want take. Strong enough. Way of world.”

“Even if it means hurting other people— _killing_ other people to get it?”

“Not pack,” the wolf scoffed. “DeanMeMine pack. Us. Alone. Hunters. Everything else prey.”

“If everything else is prey, how the hell are you any different from evil men?” John could feel his anger pulsing behind his eyes, wanting to turn into a splitting headache like it usually did.

The wolf looked at him disdainfully from his son’s face. “Don’t hunt prey for fun. Hunt for food. Protect the pack.”

“And for women?”

Its eyes flashed. “Wanted. Not cubs. Strong. Stronger than you. Take what want. Hunt kill feed fuck.”

“Not with my son’s body, you son of a bi—”

“John, this isn’t helping.”

“I don’t care!” John snapped. “That…that _thing_ is inside my son and it almost used Dean to…to…”

“I know,” Bobby said urgently, and shook his head. “But yelling at it isn’t going to do anything. Why don’t you take a little walk while I talk to it?”

John glared at the man, shocked he had even suggested it. “I’m staying. This is Dean we’re talking about, and the last time I checked, he’s still _my son_.”

“I think we’re all pretty clear on that one, John,” Bobby said dryly. “Now for God’s sake, shut up and let me help, okay?”

John shut his mouth, not trusting himself to answer. Bobby didn’t understand, couldn’t. John needed Dean: the boy was all he had left. Mary was dead and Sam was gone. If he lost Dean too, then there’d be nothing holding him back. Nothing to remind him that there were things in this world other than blood and revenge.

The wolf was watching him, amused, as though it could hear his thoughts. For all John knew, the fucking thing could. Dean’s head lifted a little and the wolf sniffed in John’s direction.

“Not wolf,” it mused. “Different. Lonely. Like DeanMeMine. Fix you. Fix DadJohnSirYesSir.”

John leaned forward, hands curling into fists. “Don’t even think abou—”

“John!” Bobby snapped.

John pushed back into his chair hard enough that it groaned in protest. Bobby waited long enough to assure himself that John wasn’t going to say anything else, and then turned his attention back to the wolf. “So the other man—Harris?—summoned you. He went through the ritual and bound you.”

“Yes.”

“And then when he attacked Dean…”

“Stopped him. Helped DeanMeMine. First kill as one. Together. The same.”

“You went into Dean instead of going back to wherever you things spend your free time.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Wanted to. Needed me.”

“You can’t do that,” Bobby protested, looking perplexed. John wanted to lean over and knock the look off his friend’s face. Make him find out how to get the thing out of his son instead of dithering with it. What did it matter why or how the thing had gotten inside? It was there and now it needed to be taken out. John realized he was being irrational and didn’t really care. Couldn’t care with those amber eyes laughing at him.

“Can. Did. Stronger this way. Equal. Better. Two as one forever.”

“Not in my son!” John shouted. Bobby was reaching for him, trying to shut him up, but John shook him off and edged forward. “You don’t get my son, you hear me? We’re going to throw you out of him and then I’m going to make sure you never hurt anyone else.”

“Can’t. Two as one. Together. Whole. Soul to soul.”

“You son of a bitch!” The wolf smirked at him and then Bobby was hauling John up and out of the room, pushing him down the hall toward the front door. “Damnit, Bobby! Let me go; that’s my son in there!”

“You’re not helping, John,” Bobby panted, pushing against him. “Now get the hell out! Go take a walk. I’m serious. I need to talk to it if we’re going to help Dean at all.”

“I can’t just—”

“I know, John. Trust me, I know. This is hard for me too. But if I don’t talk to that thing now, we may never know what happened. And if we don’t know what happened…”

“…We can’t undo it,” John muttered.

“Right. Now go outside and blow off some steam. If you need to break something, stay away from the Rambler. I’m almost done fixing it.”

Bobby stood in the hallway and waited for John to stomp outside. When John reluctantly obliged, he turned and headed back to the spare room, back to Dean. Back to the thing inside Dean.

 _Can’t. Two as one. Together. Whole. Soul to soul._

It was lying: it had to be. It had to take longer than a couple of months for a soul bleed to happen. God, what had Jim told him? _Years_ , wasn’t it? Two, three years? But there wasn’t any answer in his own mind, and his stomach was tight with fear and guilt.

 _Dean, I’m so sorry._

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Bobby found him a few hours later sitting on the hood of a partially restored Rambler. He came over and leaned next to John and they sat in silence for a few minutes. Then, tonelessly, Bobby said, “Thought I told you to stay away from this car.”

John grunted. “Didn’t touch it, Bobby. I’m just sitting here. Waiting. Like a good boy.” His voice was bitter, and it suited his mood.

Bobby nodded, and then said, gently, “We can’t take it out, John.”

John’s heart twisted so violently that he thought he was having a heart attack for a few seconds. When he could breathe again, he asked, “Why not?”

“Because it isn’t an unwilling binding—and yeah, I know _Dean’s_ not willing, but that doesn’t seem to be the side that counts in these situations. I did some reading when I finished talking with it, and it turns out that the berserker ritual is a perversion of an older rite—one that’s meant to do essentially the same thing, but with one vital difference. It lets the _spirit_ do the choosing.”

“Basically, the ritual sends up a beacon saying that there’s a human willing to act as a host and any spirit that’s interested can come take up residence. Makes the binding stronger, more permanent. Dean got lucky and didn’t need a beacon. He dropped right into the damned thing’s lap. That wolf seems to think it was destiny or something.”

John laughed unevenly and scrubbed a hand over his face. Winchester family luck, rearing its ugly head as usual.

“That element of choice—the difference in the binding—is why it could heal Dean. I’m not sure what else will be different, whether he’ll be stronger than a normal berserker, or faster. No one’s used this ritual in about two thousand years.”

“I don’t give a damn how strong or fast he is,” John growled, slamming his fist against the Rambler’s hood. He ignored the warning look Bobby gave him. “What about his mind? What about _Dean_?”

“I don’t know.” Bobby took him by the sleeve and led him away from the car. “His personality might be more…I don’t know, _stable_ , I guess. Then again, things could tip the other way and he could be just as insane as any berserker we’ve ever run into. Could happen faster; could be more violent. Or he could be fine.”

“He’s not ‘fine’, Bobby. I saw him.”

“You saw the wolf. They’re…” Bobby hesitated, with an awkward look on his face that told John he wasn’t going to like what he said next any more than he had liked anything he’d said before it. “Dean’s resisting it, John. It’s been in him too long for us to do anything about it, if we ever could have, but Dean’s keeping himself separate, for the most part. Which means that his mind—his personality—is still intact, even if his soul is getting more tangled up with that thing by the minute.”

“I can’t sit here and watch that thing destroy my son, Bobby.”

“I don’t expect you to. I said that we couldn’t get it out of him, not that we couldn’t help.”

John turned suddenly, heart hammering hopefully in his chest. “You found something.”

“Might have,” Bobby said slowly. “There’s an amulet—maybe—that can be used to put the wolf to sleep. It’ll still be inside Dean, but it won’t be conscious. He’ll be perfectly normal as long as he never takes it off. That’s if it works at all in the first place.”

“It’s a shot, right?” John swallowed. “Let’s try it. How long befo—”

“It’ll take a few days at least to get the materials I need. Maybe a week. In the meantime, we should probably keep Dean where he is. It’ll be safer.”

John pressed his eyes shut. He hated the thought of keeping his boy chained to that narrow bed for days, weeks maybe. “For us or for him?”

There was pity in Bobby’s voice when he answered, “Probably a little of both.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean didn’t know how many days he’d been here. He didn’t know how many more days he would have to stay here, didn’t know what Bobby and his father were planning. Because they were worried that telling him meant telling the wolf, and they didn’t want to warn it. Which was probably fair, seeing as Dean couldn’t seem to keep _anything_ from it, but it still rankled.

 **::Mine,::** it said softly as he lay there staring up at the ceiling, waiting for his father to bring him something to drink.

“Fuck off already.”

 **::Not coming back,::** it continued, ignoring him. **::Gone. Left you. Notpack.::**

Dean was getting really sick of this argument. Mostly because he agreed with it, not that he was going to admit that. And he wasn’t going to argue with it. Not this time. “I hate you,” he muttered.

 **::Never coming back. No more SamBrotherFriendPartnerSammy. Only DeanMeMinePack. Two as one. Better this way. Stronger. Never alone.::**

“He’s at school,” Dean ground out, giving in like he always did. “He didn’t leave. Dad…when Sammy finishes school, Dad’ll take him back.”

 **::Won’t. Left you. Left you alone.::** The wolf was trying to get Dean to let it in, but he wasn’t going to. Even if it was right and Sam was gone for good. If Dean really wanted to commit suicide, there were pleasanter ways to go than berserker insanity. And no way was he letting some furry bastard root around in his head. Anymore than it already was, anyway.

 **::Said don’tcall don’twrite don’tvisit. Doesn’t want you. _I_ want you.:: **

“Yeah, well, people in hell want ice water,” Dean told it.

 **::Thirsty,::** the wolf said plaintively, distracted, and Dean swallowed. _Tell me about it,_ he thought, and immediately regretted agreeing with it even on such a trivial point.

Then Dad came back in carrying a bottle of water with a straw sticking out of it and the wolf retreated a little. Dean breathed out a sigh of relief. For some reason, the wolf always did that whenever Dad was in the room, pulling far enough away that Dean couldn’t hear it clearly anymore and then muttering to itself. Dean got the feeling that John made the wolf nervous, maybe confused it a little. Whatever the reason, Dean was thankful for the respites from the wolf’s loving reminders of how little he meant to Sammy. How Sammy was never coming back and Dean should just give in and let the wolf take his brother’s place.

“Bobby’s ordering pizza,” John announced. “You should be able to get that down all right from there.” He sat on the edge of the bed and tipped Dean’s head up a little, maneuvering the straw toward him. Fucking embarrassing was what it was, but it was better than the alternative, which was unchaining Dean enough to feed himself. The wolf had gotten hold of him before, it could again. At least he couldn’t hurt anyone like this. So Dean let them feed him and water him like some kind of invalid and let his mind drift a little while it was happening so that he could maintain at least a shred of dignity.

Today, the wolf’s mutterings grew louder than usual as water spilled down Dean’s throat. Unusual, and a little annoying, but nothing to worry abo—

Something slammed into him— _inside_ him—like a fucking semi, driving the air from his lungs and making him choke on the water.

Dad was instantly pulling the bottle away, face concerned. “Dean, you okay there? It go down the wrong tube?”

 _Get out, GET OUT!_ Dean wanted to scream, and could only cough and shake his head. The wolf was speaking rapidly now, was coming toward him, moving to take control. And it wasn’t alone. There was something else inside him, something big and dark and eager.

“Dad…” he coughed, trying to get enough air to warn him. John put his hand on Dean’s shoulder and leaned forward, listening. And then his eyes widened as Dean felt the wolf take control.

It didn’t shove him back as far this time, so Dean had a front row seat as it turned his head and sank his teeth into his father’s hand, tearing in. He could feel bones crushing together, could taste blood in his mouth. That other thing inside him, the thing that wasn’t a wolf, was charging up, heavy and huge as a fucking truck, and _Jesusfuck that hurt_!

Then it was gone. It was out of him and he was alone with the wolf. Dean was back in the driver’s seat to watch as his father staggered back a few steps. John’s attention was fastened on his hand, his face startled and confused. His eyes flared once—shine of yellow—before slipping shut as he toppled sideways and collapsed on the floor.

“What the fuck did you do, you son of a bitch!” Dean shouted. “Dad! Dad! Oh, you _fucker_! Bobby, where the hell are you?”

 **::Fixed him,::** the wolf sang happily inside him. **::Fixed you both. Now he will see. He will let us go and we can hunt. Hunt together under the moon.::**

“Bobby!” Dean screamed again, and knew it didn’t matter, that it was too late. Too late for Dad, too late for him. It was way too fucking late.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

John was sleeping in a meadow. He could feel grass tickling his face, could smell the heavy scent of lilac in the air. He remembered this place: remembered falling asleep here, Mary within arm’s reach, all golden hair and smiles. He knew without looking that the sky overhead was bright and cloudless. And in a few minutes, he was going to wake up and make love to his wife and then there would be Dean.

Something breathed on his face, replaced the cloying scent of flowers with the reek of meat and blood, and John opened his eyes.

There was a bear sprawled out next to him, huge and heavy and deep brown. Grizzly. John went instantly still. These things were mean-tempered, could take a man’s head off for no reason other than that they felt like it, could… Oh God, where was Mary?

 **::Gone under the earth.::** The bear’s voice was slow and amused. It snorted again, blowing the smell of its last meal into his face.

John pushed himself to his feet, memories flooding back in. Mary on the ceiling. Learning the truth from Missouri. Learning to hunt. Teaching his boys. Hunting with them. Sammy leaving. Dean getting hurt, getting... Oh shit.

“No.”

The bear lumbered to its own feet and nudged him with its head. **::Mine.::**

“Fuck no.”

And the bear grinned at him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean was leaning over him when John opened his eyes. There was a gold amulet hanging around his son’s neck: a face with bull horns coming out of its forehead. John stretched a little. His limbs felt heavy, sore. “What happened?” he asked.

Dean looked at him silently, guiltily, and then Bobby swung into view. “You picked up a passenger,” Bobby said bluntly.

“I wha…” He trailed off as he remembered his dreams. Remembered the bear. “Damnit!” he swore, and Dean backed away, flushing. John sat up, felt the weight of another amulet on his own chest. “Dean, son, it’s okay.”

Dean shook his head, eyes dark. “I tried to warn you, but I wasn’t fast enough. I’m sorry, I should have realiz—”

“Dean, stop,” John ordered. He ran a hand through his hair, taking an internal inventory. He felt fine: couldn’t hear the bear, couldn’t feel it inside him. It felt…a little lonely. “I’m all right. These work.” He cupped the amulet in his hand, felt its weight.

“Make sure you don’t ever take them off,” Bobby grunted. “Either of you.”

“Yeah, right,” Dean snorted. “Like I want to hear that fuzzy little bitch yapping in my head again.”

John just nodded slowly as pieces of his dreams—conversations between him and the invader in his mind—filtered in. _‘Two as one. Stronger. Find killer. Make it pay. Rip rend tear. Strip the flesh from its bones. For her. For Marylovewifeangelfriendlover.’_ And always an undercurrent, a word not spoken: one that the bear didn’t know, although it understood the concept well enough. _Revenge._

John pushed the temptation away and looked at Bobby. “How long was I out?”

“About a week.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Sorry, John. Had to keep you under until the materials for a second amulet came in. You were…a little uncooperative.” Bobby’s expression was blank, but John could tell from Dean’s slight, amused smile that he had been more than a little uncooperative.

“Sorry,” he apologized, grinning self-consciously.

Bobby shrugged. “You weren’t yourself.”

Wasn’t he? John wasn’t sure. _‘Find killer. Make it pay.’_ God, it had been like talking to himself: like talking to that dark place he saw in his dreams, where the boys couldn’t follow. Where his sons couldn’t pull him back, pull him down. The amulet was light in his hand: a moment’s work to rip it away.

“There’s, uh, a hunt in Florida,” Dean said, breaking into the silence. “Found it yesterday. Something’s been picking through co-eds down at Florida State.”

John nodded and let his hand fall away from the amulet. He could feel Bobby’s eyes on him, sharp, and deliberately didn’t look at the man. Bobby was a good friend, and John owed him for this—for Dean’s sake, if not for his own—but sometimes he saw too much. Bobby wouldn’t understand. Neither would Dean, for that matter. John could be patient. He could wait. Wait until he was closer to Mary’s killer, until he was breathing down its neck.

“Dad?” Dean was watching him uncertainly. Still worried that John blamed him for what had happened, John realized. “Are you okay?”

John smiled wide and clapped his son on the back. “Never better, son. Never better.”


End file.
